


Powers That Be

by Selskia



Series: Drabbles, Ficlets, and Other Short Works [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angelock, Christianity in the style of Good Omens, Hierarchy of Angels, John is a Saint, John is an extremely shouty creature, M/M, Sherlock is an Angel, Sherlock is terrible at communicating, Wingfic, Winglock, Winterlock, Yes you read that right, ends with fluff, kind of, sort of, starts as drama, turns into crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selskia/pseuds/Selskia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a celestial being and an extremely bad communicator.</p><p>John is patient, clueless, and yells at Sherlock quite a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Powers That Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatonedudewiththename](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatonedudewiththename/gifts).



> My slightly belated Winterlock fic for thatonedudewiththename. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> This fic just wanted to keep going and going, and given that the due date for the Winterlock fics was fast approaching, I had to cut a dozen scenes and summarize the rest at the very end, including basically all the Johnlock. Oops.
> 
> Warning: I am an athiest writing about religion and spirituality. My apologies if I accidentally deeply offend your beliefs, this is meant as a lighthearted work of ridiculous fiction.

"Please, God...let me live," John had whispered to the dry earth below him. Above was a hell of gunfire and shouting that was gradually fading from his senses as the hormonal cascade rushing through his body lost its own battle with blood loss and shock.

Though John was rescued, no heavenly being listened to his prayer. No guardian angel stood at his back. His survival was due entirely to the free will of humanity, Sherlock would later murmur in his ear as he traced the ugly injury. "Just humanity, doing battle against death in all its forms, as Heavenly Father willed it."

No, John received his guardian angel (not that he'd say it aloud, Sherlock would throw a fit) months and months AFTER he stared death down.

In retrospect, John would find this fact quietly hilarious.

 

* * *

 

"I know you're an Army doctor," the the strange, manic man said, "and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan."

John wasn't the most observant man in the world, true, but he did notice a few things about his apparent potential flatmate. His apparently semi-omniscient potential flatmate who moved in bursts of energy surrounded by stillness.

"I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife."

The man held himself oddly, staring intensely and speaking mechanically, pieces of body language and changes in facial expression thrown in almost as an afterthought. Like someone trying to be human and failing quite badly.

"I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic; quite correctly, I'm afraid."

In the dim light, though, John didn't notice the way the man's eyes were suddenly flecked with gold. Not that he'd be looking too carefully in the depths of his eyes, no, that sort of thing wasn't done between strangers.

"And I know you've got a strong moral code, strong enough that despite your irreligious upbringing and the men you've killed in battle, you've lived the life of a good man with few regrets."

Then the gold was gone, not that John noticed.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

 

* * *

 

No one ever noticed the subtle eye colour change, not unless they were looking for the manifestation of heavenly ability. Just like no one ever identified the aura of judgement and justice and knowledge and will that cloaked Sherlock's entire form for what it was: a sign of a Power.

Most responded with alienation and awe.

Others responded with spite and suspicion.

Still others responded with guilt, or fear, or aggression, or a clawing rage that would not be extinguished.

For a rare few, Sherlock's very nature resonated in their souls and strengthened their spirits. For a rare few, meeting a Power fulfilled their potential and gave their lives purpose.

Unsurprisingly, John was a member of the last category.

 

* * *

 

The morning after the ridiculousness of the murderous cabbie found John Watson standing in front of a bookshelf in 221B with a bemused look on his face. While the other shelves in the room were filled with science texts, as one might expect of Sherlock Holmes, this particular one was filled with religious matter.

16th century religious philosophy. Modern analyses of Hell and the Devil. Several copies of the Torah, the Qur'an, and the Christian Bible. Fanciful books about angels and demons. A hymnal, its binding falling apart, that looked decades old.

He didn't recognise many of the books, and over half of them were obviously in languages that John didn't speak.

Perhaps Sherlock specialised in crimes dealing with Abrahamic religions.

 

* * *

 

John was a patient man. After all, only a patient man could tolerate living with Sherlock Holmes and his peculiar habits.

Like how he filled John's favourite (and then second favourite, and then whatever mug John could find) with smelly, possibly caustic substances. And how he would, between cases, shout " _BORED_ " directly into John's ear sometimes (once waking him from what had been a rather nice nap), right before flopping onto the sofa.

The man was practically inhuman.

But matters didn't get _really_ strange until the evening that, without warning, Sherlock looked up from his microscope at John preparing to warm up some leftover take-out and said "You've lasted longer than any of my previous flatmates."

"Not surprising," John shot back as he prodded the block of stuck-together rice. "You're fairly awful to live with, to put it mildly."

Sherlock seemed to ignore him. "Two months, three days, twenty-two hours, and thirty-seven minutes longer, in fact."

"During which you've ruined all the mugs I brought with me, all five that I've picked up at-"

Sherlock kept talking, as if John hadn't spoken. "I have been informed that I should, at this point, notify you of my status as a celestial being."

"-nd, not to mention the...what?"

But Sherlock had already turned back to his microscope, blissfully ignoring the world and John's attempts to regain his attention.

He didn't bring it up again, and neither did John. It was rather absurd, after all, quite possibly misheard.

 

* * *

 

Matters proceeded to get strange.

 

* * *

 

"Sherlock!" John yelled from the bathroom. "We discussed this! The tub is _off-limits_ for your experiments," he continued. A pile of wet feathers wasn't really all that bad, but he certainly wasn't going to let it slide. If he did, John was fairly certain he'd wake up to a full pig corpse or something rotting in there.

He took a closer look at the tangled pile of feathers. They were white, slightly iridescent, looked a bit worse for wear, and were...huge.

"And where the hell did you get such bloody large feathers from?" John continued yelling. That at least got a response -- a snort of laughter. Seriously though, the shortest of the feathers looked to be a good four inches, while the longer ones were well over a foot in length. While he knew peacocks and other birds had long decorative feathers, these looked stiffer and more practical than the fluttery things of beauty decorating headdresses.

John had more important things to do than study feathers, though. At the moment, getting his incredibly inconsiderate flatmate to clear up his mess was ranking high on that list.

"Sherlock!"

 

* * *

 

"God, did you see the look on her face?" John said with a stifled giggle as their latest 'client' left. They occasionally got people who thought they could bluff or double-bluff or even triple-bluff the world's only consulting detective. Less and less these days, but it still happened, and it was still amusing when Sherlock took them apart with surgical precision.

"Do refrain from using the Lord's name in vain, John," Sherlock drawled in reply. He was smiling.

 

* * *

 

It had been a rough day. Too many screaming children, far too many bodily fluids, and no where near enough paracetamol for his headache. The moment John stepped into 221B, he made for the kitchen.

"Sherlock, tea?" he called out as he checked the kettle for inedibles. There were none. Sherlock grunted something that resembled a "yes". Close enough.

A few minutes later, mugs in hand, John entered the living room proper. Stopped.

Sherlock was reading from a thick tome on angels.

"What's that, then?" John asked, setting Sherlock's mug down in a small mug-shaped nook between stacks of papers and odds and ends.

"Obvious, John."

He rolled his eyes in response as he sat. Though, actually...

"Why DO you have so many books on religion?" John hadn't really given the bookshelf much thought since that first morning spent in 221B, but this seemed like an opportunity to get some questions answered.

"Entertainment. You mortals never get it right."

John shifted a bit uncomfortably. He was hardly a religious man himself, but still.

"Sherlock..."

At that, Sherlock looked up from his book, catching John's eyes in a stare.

"Really, John? Over this? Religion hardly matters to you and I, and most of it is complete drivel as it is. But given my nature, I need to keep up to date with common conceptions."

"You mean, for the Work?"

"John, I told you-"

Text alert. John was promptly ignored mid-sentence as Sherlock picked up his mobile.

"Locked-room murder," Sherlock said with glee.

And they were off, topic forgotten.

 

* * *

 

"What the bloody hell are you doing!"

Sherlock didn't falter at John's shout, continuing to trace an elegant curve on the wallpaper with his knife. In fact, he completely ignored John, focusing on the placement of his slices until John wrenched the blade from his hands. At that point, he presented John with a manic glare and a snarl on his lips.

"We're dealing with a demonic cult, John," Sherlock said darkly, eyes burnished gold. "A demonic cult that actually knows what they're doing with human sacrifice."

John, meanwhile, was busy worrying about the cost of repairs and how the ever-patient Mrs. Hudson would react to weird runic carvings glistening with oil stretched across all the walls. "Yes, but that doesn't mean we start destroying property!"

"No, John, it means I start warding the flat and you stay out of the way."

"What the hell, Sherlock!"

With the hand not holding the knife, John rubbed at his forehead. Right. Apparently, after five days of minimal food and even less sleep, Sherlock had apparently lost it. "Sherlock, you haven't slept in days. Bed. Now."

"But John, the case-"

"Sherlock. Bed. Now."

 

* * *

 

It took a little while, but John managed to corral a ranting Sherlock into his bed, where he promptly passed out upon touching the sheets. With a sigh, John headed back out to clean up the mess.

When he returned to check on Sherlock, having wiped the oil away and made a plan for fixing the slashes in the wallpaper, Sherlock was gone.

 

* * *

 

Thirteen rounds. That's all John had, in his Browning, and there were definitely more than a dozen men facing Sherlock.

Bugger.

He peered around the storage boxes again -- nope, nothing had changed. It was still Sherlock bloody Holmes in his dramatic bloody coat facing down an entire bloody cult all by his bloody self.

Deep breath. Right, then. Once more, unto the breach.

But before John could do something completely idiotic, Sherlock spoke, full of rage and fire and justice.

"Demon speakers! Hear me now, for I speak for God and act His divine will!"

...what?

"I cast judgement upon you, for your empowerment of my fallen kin through virgin sacrifice."

The cult members seemed to take him quite seriously, the ones towards the back already turning to flee. But upon completion of his little speech, Sherlock reached to his side, pulled out what appeared to be a _flaming sword_ as gigantic, shimmering, iridescent, feathered _angelic wings_ appeared at his back.

Having been dumbfounded several moments ago, John simply wondered why that damn coat wasn't torn to shreds by the materialisation of a solid eight feet of wing.

Sherlock looked skyward for a moment, then forward, casting bright gold eyes upon his prey, before shooting forward impossibly fast and-

 

* * *

 

" _What the fucking hell, Sherlock!_ "

John's hands were in his hair as he paced, shouting at what was apparently his fucking avenging angel of a flatmate, alternating disbelieving glares between him and the piles of ash that were once demonic cult members.

"John, as I explained to you last month-"

"No, no, _Sherlock_ , you did not _fucking_ explain _anything_ last month, I think I would have _remembered_."

Sherlock stood in front of John, wings folded against his back, sword (still flaming, still warm, still utterly ridiculous) held loosely in one hand. He kept sighing dramatically, and might have muttered something along the lines of 'Father, give me strength' as he waited for openings in John's hysteria to cut in.

"John, it's not my fault if you didn't listen. I spent hours explaining my status as a celestial being, a Power of Heavenly Father, surely not even you're that idiotic-"

"No, Sherlock, you cryptically said you were a _celestial being_ then proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the evening as I ate dinner, watched telly, washed up, and headed upstairs for the night!"

Sherlock sighed again and lifted his (still flaming) sword to rest on his shoulder. "John, are you really going to make me repeat myself? I utterly loathe-"

"Yes, Sherlock, I will. Because this is bloody fucking important and you just turned people into ash-"

"Well, they weren't good people."

"-and you have bloody fucking wings and why the _hell_ isn't that fucking sword burning through your coat!?"

Another sigh. Even more put-upon, if that were possible.

"John, I'm a _heavenly being_ , of course my sword doesn't have powers derived from Hell-"

" _THAT ISN'T WHAT I MEANT AND YOU BLOODY WELL KNOW THAT!_ "

 

* * *

 

One angelic teleportation, two hours of hysterics, and thirty minutes of annoyed explanation later, John had at least stopped shouting and was sitting in his armchair. The glaring hadn't quite stopped, yet.

"So, let me get this straight-"

"-as your feeble mortal mind has been struggling to for the past three hours-"

"Shut up, Sherlock. So, you're a 'Power'," John said, complete with air quotes, "a warrior angel of God-"

"-blessed be his name-"

"-and also some kind of angel of intellect and philosophy, even though you're a complete ass of a man-"

"-like I said, you lot are terrible at angelology-"

"I said, _shut up_ , Sherlock. You're an angel, and you were enacting the divine will of God, so Lestrade and his team aren't going to show up and arrest us for incinerating a whole cult because Mycroft is a 'Dominion' and will take care of matters because he's England's own guardian angel. God is real, religion is mostly just humans acting out rituals, you have a flaming sword and a pair of wings that you store in a heavenly pocket dimension, and you haven't drugged me and I'm not hallucinating all this."

There was a moment of silence.

"Well?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Are you quite finished?"

John sighed. "Yes."

"In that case, yes, yes, guardian angels don't exist but mostly correct, yes, yes, not even remotely close to the fact but if that's what it takes for your mind to understand it, so be it, and yes."

They stared at each other. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed.

"I suppose you want to see the wings again."

"Yes, Sherlock, they're impossible and you of all people are an angel, of course I want to see the wings again."

They shimmered into existence, solid and majestic as they loosely encircled the two chairs, except for where they went THROUGH matter. Something about heavenly pocket dimensions. Not that John understood, but he didn't really need to in order to marvel at them.

"...they're impossible, Sherlock. And beautiful," John murmured for the fifth time.

Across from him, Sherlock quite happily preened.

 

* * *

 

Five months later, life was fully back to normal. Things hadn't changed, not really.

But instead of calling John from across the apartment to fetch his phone from his pocket, Sherlock was more apt to ask John to pluck a feather, yes, that one, it really was quite irritating.

And occasionally, instead of shouting about mouldy bread in the breadbox (cultures, John, a man's life could depend on them!), John would sometimes stare with confusion at a perfectly preserved fried egg behind the rice cooker (you fried that one in holy oil, John, of course it's preserved).

Life went on in 221B.

 

* * *

 

A few things did change, though.

More often than not, John woke from sleep under a cloak of angel feathers, feeling safe and protected and thrumming with a sense of meaning to his life.

When Sherlock elaborated on the carved and blessed sigils in the walls, adding flourishes with ink made from holy water, John didn't shout. He instead quietly thanked Sherlock for his work.

John learned, in great carnal detail, that God didn't hate bisexual or homosexual men. Why else, Sherlock would say smugly, would prostate stimulation feel so good?

And on some quiet evenings between cases, Sherlock would lie shirtless on their bed, wings draped across the sheets as John carded careful fingers through them. He'd whisper heavenly secrets between sighs of relief as the hard to reach feathers were tugged back into alignment. John would murmur quiet questions and Sherlock would respond, spinning tales of the times before civilisation, telling of God's ineffable plan and how He did indeed hear John's prayer as he lay dying.

Sherlock would scoff at any and all mentions of guardian angels -- commercial rubbish, he called them -- but John would simply keep brushing his angel's feathers with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading!
> 
> If you were curious, I used the following websites as resources for the Hierarchy of Angels:
> 
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christian_angelic_hierarchy  
> http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/OurAngelsAreDifferent (Angels in Christian Tradition)  
> http://www.catholic.org/saints/angels/angelchoir.php  
> http://www.paganspath.com/meta/angels1.htm  
> http://www.archangels-and-angels.com/misc/angelic_hierarchy.html
> 
> Almost none of it is consistent, but I took bits from different interpretations to make Sherlock a holy warrior of justice and knowledge: a Power/Authority. Angelic hierarchies are fascinating.


End file.
